


Opposing Mirrors

by nothinbuttherain



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothinbuttherain/pseuds/nothinbuttherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during 'Eragon' plugging a slight gap in canon and dealing with Nasuada and Murtagh’s first meeting when she visits him in his cell shortly after his detainment by Ajihad after arriving at Farthen Dûr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opposing Mirrors

Opposing Mirrors

His wrists and ankles are unbound. He’s warm, comfortable and provided with three enormous, delicious meals per day. The room around the bed he’s lying, rather listlessly on, brooding up at the elaborately carved ceiling, endeavouring to follow a new pattern today, is grand and luxurious, a world away from the damp grey walls and shrieking iron bars he had been dreading and outfitted in such a way that he could almost forget he was a prisoner.

The lock in the door and the guards beyond it are the only mars in the otherwise commendable illusion that Ajihad has constructed for his benefit. Or perhaps he just doesn’t hold with throwing men into dungeons to rot like animals, particularly when they hadn’t committed any definable crime other than existing with the wrong blood and tone of voice.

Still, in the haze of the taciturn anger that hasn’t quite abated from his incarceration, he isn’t feeling particularly disposed to giving his jailors the benefit of the doubt and trying to think the best of them.

Thinking the best of people invariably gets you killed, he’s learned the hard way. While it isn’t particularly pleasant to be trailed by a black cloud of suspicion wherever he goes, he’s rarely surprised by someone else’s actions and that, if nothing else, is what’s kept him alive all this time.

Closing his eyes and working his jaw he tries to decide how best to fill his time in the near future. Pacing the room had lost its savour several days ago when, with a grim thought, he had come to the conclusion that there was no point in wearing out perfectly good boots on the plush carpet and had given it up.

Restless, pent up energy pulses through him, despite the fact that a part of him, the part that’s still vividly connected to the mad, headlong flight that brought them to this accursed mountain in the first place, feels the exhaustion of their trip. He’s recovered suitably to the point that lying here day in day out to regain his strength no longer appeals and the confinement leaves a sour, bitter taste in his mouth that only seems to be intensifying with each passing day.

Just as he’s contemplating getting up off of the bed and examining the writing desk again, to see if there’s anything of interest there to occupy his mind for a few minutes, which seems all the time he’s capable of distracting himself at present, he’s alerted to something else, a change in the status quo which immediately peaks his interest as nothing else has.

Sitting up and reaching on instinct for some weapon as he hears the lock scrape back and the low rumble of his guards addressing someone outside he inwardly curses when his fingers scrabble around empty air at his hip. He doesn’t think there’s any real chance of him being cut down while under Ajihad’s explicit protection here but he dislikes not having the weapons which have been his most constant companions on the road since he fled the capitol and he felt strangely naked and vulnerable without them.

Prising himself from the bed he rose to his feet to greet his visitor, which was something of a surprise to them. He had decided, judging on the sudden faint protests from his stomach, that it was about time they brought him his evening meal and so the tray laden high with platters of food doesn’t take him aback all that much but the young woman carrying it most certainly does.

Her skin is rich and dark, like that of Ajihad’s and her intelligent eyes are a deep, liquid brown that seems to contain entire undiscovered worlds and wisdom despite what he judges to be her fairly young age and which she can’t hide with the demure curtsey she bestows upon him, lowering her gaze just a little too late for him to ever think her of the same rank as the servants who usually fetch him his meals.

Undoubtedly beautiful though she is, a fact that should, he reasons, be evident to anyone with working eyes, that isn’t what holds his gaze and draws him to her to the point that he can feel his body pitching forwards, on the brink of taking an active step towards her before he manages to catch and restrain himself again.

The way she holds herself, her bearing, makes her seem more noble and regal than any of the ladies he’s seen in and around Galbatorix’s court, all of them in far finer garb than her and all of them paling in comparison to the quiet sense of confidence, strength and such a regal air that he would have believed her queen of any kingdom in the known world in a heartbeat if she had told him that’s who she was.

As it is, he knows she’s no simple kitchen servant, despite the suddenly guarded, trusting innocent eyes she fixes him masterfully with, so suddenly and surely that he’s certain he’s in the presence of one of the most dangerous people in Tronjheim. Dangerous because of her evident self-control and assuredness, appearing utterly in command of this situation and, he feels quite justified in believing, any that might cross her path and doubly so because he knows so few would suspect the steel spine beneath the silken smile she now fixes him with.

After watching him for a few moments with an unreadable expression on her face, even her dark eyes betraying nothing of her inner thoughts, she dips another small curtsey and takes charge of the situation, crossing the room and setting the tray of food on a table behind them, turning back to him to say in a soft, sweet voice, “Your dinner, sir. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

In spite of himself, he feels a wry smile tug at his lips as he finds himself questioning the conclusions he just drew about her for a heartbeat before he resolves himself and moves in a little closer to her, drawn deeper into the room after her as though some unearthly magic compels him to maintain a shorter distance between them than the one she had stretched when walking away from him.

“You can stop insulting my intelligence?” He suggests lightly, taking a strange, almost giddy delight in the fact that he can see he’s caught her off-guard with that and that this little ruse of hers isn’t rumbled often. Playing off of her guarded look he adds, “Come now, you don’t expect me to truly believe you are a servant, do you?”

Eyeing him with bright, doe eyes for a moment more he sees the choices in the change when they harden a little, her gaze becoming steelier and infinitely more calculating and probing and he can almost hear her brain working to re-evaluate him and their situation.

Finally, drawing herself up and straightening herself once more, looking him in the eye she drops all pretence with a manner that frankly impresses him, owning up completely to being caught in her deception and simply asks, with a perfectly neutral expression, “What gave me away?”

A soft laugh bursts from his lips and he finds himself struggling, his usual directness deserting him as he casts around for the right words finally settling on an overly airy, “Everything.”Which only causes her to arch an eyebrow at him questioningly. Amending hastily, he adds, “Forgive me, my lady, you were incredibly convincing yet...” He trails off, vaguely, wondering how she can affect him so, considering the possibility for a fleeting moment that she might be some sort of sorceress or magician before he discounts the thought as madness.

“And yet everything about my guise gave me away, to use your phrase.” She shoots back at him, turning his own words against him with a startling rapidity that suggests both practice and a keen natural wit he immediately respects.

Nodding and unable to stop another wry smile tugging at his lips he seeks to correct the oversight, “I meant every detail gave you away.”

Surveying him a moment through her liquid eyes, appearing like molten onyx for a moment when the candlelight catches them and tosses strange shadows across them, masking her immediate reaction to that but she blinks a moment later, a silent invitation for him to expand upon his assertion, which he finds himself hastening to do in a way he doesn’t recall ever hastening for anyone else before.

“Your dress.” He says, gesturing at the deep green gown that cradles the delicate curves of her body in a way that his eyes can’t help but linger on a moment longer than was perhaps courteous before he can redirect his gaze to her magnetic eyes once more and hastily press on, “Your speech. The way in which your carry yourself.” _How beautiful you are, to put all of the ladies of court to shame._ He thought, but managed to bite his tongue and stop that tripping off of it as well, improved only slightly with, “You appear more a princess to me than a servant.”

A slight smile curves her lips which he finds his eyes flicking to and catching on a moment before she seems to come to a decision on how to answer that, lifting her eyes to meet his in an unflinching gaze she says with a quiet, guarded amusement, “No-one has ever called my father king.”

This all but confirms the suspicion that had been growing ever stronger in his mind since he first set eyes on her and he says, endeavouring to keep his voice as settled and controlled as hers, “But they call him sir and treat him as such do they not?” He asks of her, “As leader of the Varden, that is his due.”

A soft, cat like smile spreads across her lips but that’s the only indication to give him to tell him that he’s correct. He decides, after a brief pause to see if any sort of verbal answer is forthcoming which it doesn’t appear to be, then takes this silent smile as an invitation to continue as he sees fit.

“So, tell me,” He says, with a faint half smile himself, meeting his eyes, “Why are you really here?”

Her expressions shifts again, clearing from the set smile and reassembling to something smooth and unreadable, allowing her to study him for a moment with impunity, only her eyes shifting and stirring as they meet his before she finally admits, “I wanted to meet you.”

A burst of humourless laughter forces itself from his throat at that and he finds himself crossing his arms over his chest and turning away from her, taking a few steps back towards the bed, turning to study her reaction to his largely unwarranted outburst. Her face remains inscrutable, she merely waits patiently for an explanation for his actions. He finds something in that fact alone somewhat freeing, knowing that she hasn’t placed assumptions about his behaviour even though he took it to be fairly self explanatory.

Shrugging, suddenly self-conscious on account of her questioning gaze, he shifts slightly in place then forces his voice to adopt a hard, mocking edge and says, “So you know who I am then?”

A small arched eyebrow is the only concession she makes to responding to his sudden harsh change of tone but her own is perfectly smooth and neutral when she goes on, “Of course. How could I fail to, with my father in the position you now know that he’s in.”

Taken aback slightly by her somehow infuriatingly neutral response, he lashes out unnecessarily, “You wanted to see if I reflected my father did you? A monstrous son to match his monstrous father.”

“No.” She says, so simply and steadily, her gaze never wavering or faltering despite the potent venom in his voice that he’s taken aback all over again, which is something he’s starting to get the feeling she enjoys doing to him, “I came here to meet Murtagh.” She states coolly, “Not Morzan’s son.”

That sparks a dull flush of colour to infuse the skin around his neck and the heat creeps slowly up into his cheeks before he can master himself once more. Biting back the sarcasm he would have thrown out to almost anyone else who had attempted to tell him that, he feels his hands clench into tight fists.

“Do not try to tell me that you cannot see him.” He says, his jaw tight, his gaze dropping to the patch of slightly dusty carpet between them, his words hard and so forced she can almost feel pain behind them, “That is all anyone can see whenever they look on me and they know who I am.”

Her reaction to this declaration surprises him. Instead of erecting more barriers around him than the tentative few he already feels about her, she takes several steps towards him until she’s so close he can smell the sweet yet somehow delicately spicy fragrance that seems to surround her and it’s almost impossible for him to avoid her probing gaze and not meet her eyes, which she waits for him to do before she says, very quietly, “I understand a little of what that can be like. Perhaps not to the same degree that you do but...”

He finds his eyes drawn inexorably upwards to meet hers again, feeling some strange connection to this woman he barely knows from a simple line and the depth of feeling with which it was uttered, in a way he’s never felt so linked to another human being before, a feeling that profoundly deepens as she continues. “I too know what it is like to have someone look at you and see you there alone yet still somehow see through you to your father.”

“It isn’t the same.” He says in a brittle voice, shaking his head, “Ajihad is a great leader, a great man. My father-“ He broke off, sighing and turning away from her in bitter disgust.

“Your father was, by all accounts, a monster.” She says quietly, her tone so calm and her words so stark that it draws his eyes back up to hers once more, temper briefly flaring before he sees that all she’s doing is speaking the truth, which he can’t fault her for.

Confused, he doesn’t answer and allows her to continue the conversation and further explain her earlier point about the similarities between them. “That means that the expectations placed upon me are better than those prejudices forced on you.” She says, with the air of choosing her words with a little more care now, “Yet they still exist.”

 Watching her smooth, carefully controlled features closely for any betrayal of the thoughts behind her eyes, trying to determine her feelings and intentions in this instance he lets her go on uninterrupted, “I dislike having assumptions made about me as much as you do.” She informs him simply with a seeming understanding of some of the most intimate parts of himself, parts he’s usually able to conceal and protect far better and that she seems to be stripping back with apparent ease. But he can’t deny her words or the deepening understanding he feels for her and the stronger pulse of the strange connection that links the two of them.

“Some believe I will be like my father. Exactly like my father. Incapable of my own thoughts and opinions.” She continues, moving further into the room and, after a silent exchange of gestures and motions, requests permission to sit on the corner of his bed, which he grants, at which point she settles herself on the corner of the large four-poster, “Others believe I am a weak, innocent girl with none of his steel or wisdom. Either way, they do not consider me as my own person. I love my father,” she asserts very firmly now, “I am proud to be his daughter and I would be proud to emulate his leadership should that heavy burden ever fall to me. But I am myself first and Ajihad’s daughter second and I do not appreciate those who are blind to that fact.”

Pausing a moment to collect herself and allow him to process everything she’s said she straightens the skirts of her dress, settling her hands in her lap before she returns her attention to him and asks with the unsettling stark simplicity he’s coming to associate with her, “Do you understand?”

“I understand all you have said to me.” He says cautiously, “And I understand why you believe we are alike in that one way.” He continues, meeting her gaze as he finishes with a more guarded question of his own, “But I do not understand why you have said everything you have. I am a stranger to you, so-“

“So why would I reveal so much of myself to you?” She finishes for him, arching an eyebrow. He nods wordlessly, wondering if she’ll answer.

Taking a deep breath and a moment to compose herself she studies her hands in her lap and then says slowly, “You risked much to help deliver Eragon, Saphira and Arya to us. You accomplished so much in a short space of time and your deeds are worthy of song and legend as much as Eragon’s.” Pausing she goes on more slowly, weighing each word, the first time she’s noticeably done so, “And yet, in part because you will not consent to have your mind examined but also in part because of who you are and the name of your father you have been imprisoned.” She gestures around at the wide bedroom they’re surrounded by, “A comfortable cell indeed, but a cell nevertheless.” Slowing even more and glancing up at him to read his reaction to her next words she says, very quietly, “Were I you, I would be furious at the gratitude, or lack thereof, your deeds have gained you with us.”

He wasn’t sure quite what to make of this beautiful young woman with the steel tempering her eyes, hidden to all beneath a veil of silken smiles and light, airy courtesy and her masterful way with words not to mention her keen observations and insights into everyone she came into contact with. A part of him suspected that she was the concealed dagger Ajihad had up his sleeve, one his enemies would never suspect or think to guard against but one who would slit their throats while they smiled unsuspecting as quick as blinking.

She intrigued him, she fascinated him. And though she had penetrated his defences, defences he prided himself on, defences that had kept him alive while wandering the land and evading the Empire more succinctly than even the Twins could have done had they been inside his head throughout their conversation, he felt no desire to shy away from her, to erect barriers around himself against her.

On the contrary he wanted to let her in deeper, he wanted to see what else she could glean from him, what else she could understand about him, in a way that no-one else had ever seemed to bother trying before. He wanted her to stay here, to keep him company and to speak more with him about whatever took his or her fancy. He wanted to be with her, he realised, he wanted to actively seek out her presence and didn’t want to be alone when he was with her.

That was a strange realisation to come to after so long travelling alone. And even when he had been with Eragon there had been long periods of time where he had flown with Saphira and left him alone with his thoughts and many nights where they had spoken little if at all to one another. It had suited them both, him in particular and had not troubled him. But here, with her, he thinks he would happily spend hours in her presence doing nothing more than talking with her.

Deciding to deflect her earlier assertion instead of trying to find a reply to her, he flips the conversation around and shoots a question back at her in turn, “These assumptions that people make of you, you have found a way to turn them to your advantage, have you not?”

“What do you mean?” She asks quietly, her eyes dancing with a bright, vibrant intelligence as she studies him.

He allows a soft smile to tug at his lips, “Playing the blushing, malleable servant when we both know you are anything but, displaying a naivety that doesn’t seem to be evident anywhere in your personality because that is what some people expect and it is easier to deceive them if you play into their hands.”

Her own smile answers his and she simply says, “Perhaps.” Then, with razor sharpness and the speed to rival an elf she counters, “Do you play games also?”

“No.” He answers, swiftly and simply, shaking his head, “I had my fill of games at Galbatorix’s court.” He breaks off almost at once, suddenly fearing that he’s revealed too much of his past and too much of himself, both scared and exhilarated by how easy it is to talk to her and how he’s told her so much of himself without thinking. Granted, she and her father almost certainly know but he has to be more careful with her before he lets something slip that she doesn’t.

Clearing his throat he joins her on the bed, perching on the opposite end to her, as far as he can be while still occupying the same mattress. His consternation about their proximity seems to amuse her but she doesn’t make mention of it except the faint glimmer of merriment that lights up her deep eyes.

Finally, he succeeds in changing the subject and says as smoothly as he can, “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, my lady.”

“How so?” She asks, tossing back her hair and leaning back slightly to better enable her to look at him as they speak, “Other than the cell, I presume?” She adds with light humour.

That drags a smile and even a short bark of wry laughter, “You seem very familiar with who I am.” He tells her evenly, “But I can’t say the same of you.”

The smile on her lips broadens until it’s almost wolfish as she responds with what he would swear was a playful lilt, “But you do. You know I am Ajihad’s daughter.”

Allowing a vaguely teasing note to enter his own voice he leans back on his elbows and says, “Ah, but I thought you wished to be seen as your own person and not just your father’s child?”

He receives a wry smile in return for his efforts but then, gathering her dress around her, she gets to her feet and says calmly, “Now that you mention my father, you remind me of the duties that I have a responsibility to perform”.” Dipping in another, slightly exaggerated little curtsey that makes him smile again she says sweetly, “I must go and attend to those matters I have neglected while speaking with you.”

Nodding towards the tray he had completely forgotten until this moment she says, “Enjoy the food...And the scroll.” She says, drawing attention to a feature of his dinner he hadn’t noticed at all, being too intent on its bearer when it had arrived, “I thought you might enjoy some kind of entertainment in your isolation here and that is a particular favourite of mine.” She breaks off, seeming a little abashed by that revelation but covers the slight fumble almost at once by adding smoothly, “Tronjheim has an excellent and extensive library which you may, and should, make use of. Let whoever brings your meals know what you want and they will fetch it for you.”

Rising from the bed as she moves to the door he crosses to meet her and places a gentle hand on her wrist to make her pause a moment. There’s nothing threatening in the gesture at all but at the sudden previously unexplored physical contact, the air seems to contract and tauten as though thick thunder clouds have gathered between them and a certain tension crackles there without warning.

Torn between not wanting to worry her or overstep his boundaries and remove his hand and maintaining this strange and now even more dynamic new connection he allows her to dictate, ready to release her the moment she begins to pull away. But after glancing down briefly at his hand coiled around her slim wrist, she returns her gaze to his eyes and he finds a fire twisting in the depths of her dark eyes he hadn’t seen before kindled from the sparks cast between them.

Finally, he manages to locate his tongue again and says quietly, “I would not have you leave without first knowing your name.” Hesitating and remembering courtesies that had all but dried to dust on the road with disuse, he adds, “If it please you, my lady.”

Her blazing expression softening for a heartbeat she lets the question linger for a moment longer than was wise, allowing things to stretch to near breaking point between them before she consents to give him an answer, “I am Nasuada.”

He inclines his head in response, “Nasuada.” He echoes lightly, testing the word the way he would a new sword, rolling it around his mouth and allowing it to drop from his tongue, finding that he likes the way it feels and sounds. As she begins to draw away, her hand extending out to the door handle he can’t stop himself from rushing to ask, “Will you visit me again, Nasuada.”

Turning back to him she lets a small cat like smile grace her lips once more as she says with maddeningly vagueness, without which he supposes he wouldn’t find her half so intriguing or compelling, “I might.” Then, pausing a beat she arches an eyebrow and asks, “Would that please you?” Echoing and yet transforming his earlier courtesy, making it more playful and teasing.

“It would.” He answers swiftly and more earnestly than he had intended, “I cannot remember having such intriguing and pleasant company in some time.”

A light laugh bursts from her and he realises with a sudden jolt that he could spend a day and a night listening to it and never tire of it, “You have been travelling with an elf, a rider and a _dragon_ for weeks.” She reminds him lightly, eyes twinkling.

“Aye.” He agrees, “And they were intriguing company I’ll not deny it.” Pausing with a slight smile he inclines his head towards her and says firmly, “But I still find yours far more pleasant.”

Another soft smile brushes her lips, an image that lingers with the delicate fragrance of her perfume long after she’s slipped out of his room with another nod and a light, quiet, “Goodnight, Murtagh.”

****

 


End file.
